


a pearl in the tangle

by PandaFlower



Category: Naruto
Genre: Blood and Gore, Creepy, Cults, Disguise, Drama & Romance, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Murder Mystery, Supernatural Elements, a dash of angst for flavor, more like murder and mystery, not really a mystery who's doing the killing, where's waldo except with Tobirama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:00:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22415137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PandaFlower/pseuds/PandaFlower
Summary: Madara grimaced at the smell of the sea air as the port town came into view, the last of the trees parted and forcing him to take the ground path. He hated port towns; they were damp, the local diet was fish heavy, and they stank to high heaven. He wouldn’t even be here if their intelligence hadn’t suggested some disturbing things happened to the last shinobi to take this godforsaken job.
Relationships: Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara
Comments: 27
Kudos: 276





	1. Chapter 1

Madara grimaced at the smell of the sea air as the port town came into view, the last of the trees parted and forcing him to take the ground path. He hated port towns; they were damp, the local diet was fish heavy, and they stank to high heaven. He wouldn’t even be here if their intelligence hadn’t suggested some disturbing things happened to the last shinobi to take this godforsaken job.

He pulled a scroll out of the storage seal cleverly hidden in the lining of his sleeve; might as well go over what information he had to work with for this mission. 

Akkorokamui was a large port town, it used to have a thriving pearl trade until over-farming stunted the local oyster population decades ago. Now, it had adapted to more plebeian means like fishing and whaling and pilgrimage to support itself, its former wealth of pearls a distant dream and a fond memory.

What Madara was sent to investigate was why the governor of Akkorokamui had stopped sending administrative reports to the capital like he was supposed to. The investigator from the capital had been assured by the man, repeatedly, that all reports had been sent as normal, and perhaps it was some mishap along the road that did away with them? A hypothesis that fell flat when patrols turned up no bandit presence along the roads, no local hawks savaging the messenger birds, and no messengers whatsoever.

So, if bureaucracy was being stonewalled then it was time to send in a stealthier investigator to case the place. Except what should have been no more than a high-trust milk run for the last mission applicant turned inexplicably deadly when the shinobi disappeared, seemingly without a trace.

Madara considered that last tidbit grimly, mouth tightening at the idea of someone of _his_ caliber disappearing. That’s why it was him, not Izuna, taking this mission, even though it definitely suited Izuna’s talents better. Izuna can _talk_ to people in way Madara never could quite manage.

He stuffed the scroll out of sight as the first buildings began to loom over head, pulling his kasa hat low to hide his face, just another pilgrim weary of sun and journey. 

Only for the gate guard to bar his way.

“The temple’s closed, pilgrim. You’ll have to turn back around,” The tall guard said grimly. Madara arched a disbelieving brow under his hat. The temple’s closed? The temple from whom’s god the town took its name and was responsible for upwards of forty percent of its tourism traffic, that temple?

“Can’t a man at least book an inn room then?” Madara affected a weary droop. “I’ve been sleeping on dirt for days. I think I must have lain on every uncomfortable root between here and Ryuzetsu!”

“Ryuzetsu?” The guard straightened. Damn, the man was unfairly tall. Madara had to tip his chin up to look him in the eye. “That’s all the way up near the border with Hot Water. What are you doing down here on the crescent?”

“This is the biggest temple to Akkorokamui-sama in Fire country, if we don’t count the one by Wind that is,” Madara replied testily. “And we don’t—”

“—don’t count the one by Wind, yes,” the guard repeated with him, fighting to suppress a slight smile. “Yeah, alright. Can’t begrudge someone a night’s rest. Papers, please.”

“My thanks,” Madara said shortly. His papers passed inspection and soon he was merging with the evening traffic of people meandering home for dinner, the setting sun behind him. The air was positively ripe with salt breeze and smoke from cooking fires, and Madara had to fight not to wrinkle his nose. Give him forests and leaf mulch any day.

Of course, finding the right kind of inn was equally frustrating. Were Madara going as himself he’d opt for one of the nicer inns furthest from the coast that he could at least trust not to have water damage, and if his false identity were a wealthy pilgrim he probably could have without standing out too much. As it is, with the temple closed for whatever reason he’d stand out regardless so he was going to have to grit his teeth and make his way nearer to the shore where every building rose on stilts and every creak in the night came with the paranoia that the house was going to fall. Absolutely lovely. Just what he wanted.

He eventually settled for some peeling piece proclaiming itself the Aotama Inn in faded letters. Madara was of the opinion that ‘Blue Pearl’ was an extremely tacky name but as he was ostensibly a beggar he couldn’t exactly be choosy.

Didn’t mean he wouldn’t grouse about it in the meantime.

The innkeeper gave him leery looks around filling out his ledger but accepted his coin easy enough. Madara couldn’t be sure what was setting the old fogie off but whatever it was he needed to cut it out sharpish or Madara was going to do something rude in response. Possibly memorably rude.

The room itself was... at once better and worse than he hoped. There was a large window to let in light and warm the place, which would be fine if it weren’t an _eastern_ facing window and thus presently useless and the herald of many interrupted mornings to come. As it was also open it let in all kinds of damp breezes rising off the ocean, stinking heavily of salt and seaweed, and making the floor under the window feel disgustingly damp and chill.

Madara made to close the blinds only for them to creak alarmingly on their probably rusting hinges and get stuck halfway. He glared at them in disgust and dug out a bottle of weapon oil to dump on them, working the doors back and forth until they finally budged and he could snap them closed.

Instantly, the room plunged into darkness and Madara cursed, throwing the blinds back open so he wouldn’t fall on his face trying to find the damn lantern.

The lantern, thankfully, wasn’t some paper monstrosity that made his fire safety instincts hiss but a more sensible glass and metal construct sitting on the low table, the only other piece of furniture in the room besides the small chest of drawers and a futon on a raised frame. 

Lantern lit and blinds closed, Madara finished securing the room and returned to the low table to lay out his reports, and a spare sheaf of paper to catalogue his notes. There wasn’t very much to speak of from just a stroll but the implications the guard at the gate dropped… If the governor wasn’t sending reports, and the temple was turning away pilgrims…

Madara dearly, dearly hopes he didn’t just blunder into some ridiculous attempt to absorb the town into Noodle country or something equally outrageous. Or actually, maybe he should because that meant it was firmly civilian ruckus and therefore the Daimyo’s problem, not his. Except no civilian could have gotten the drop on _that person_ …

Well. That was a problem for morning him. Tonight him needed to sleep to be well rested for a little hour of the ox jaunt around town for clues.

He planted a hand on the futon to lever himself up and made a disgusted face at the chilly, vague dampness. Ugh, disgusting. Good thing he brought a travel roll.

* * *

Night time saw little improvement to Madara’s opinion of Akkorokamui, only made an appreciated attempt to hide the worst of it in shadows that Madara’s sharingan saw through anyway. Ugh, he might actually be seeing it more clearly than he did in the daytime, complete with the little side benefit of _never forgetting_. 

Whatever. Soon as he figured what the hell was going on in this place he could leave.

First order of business; find the governor’s office and rifle through it until it coughs up answers. If everything he needed was conveniently there like a bad mystery drama then he can move immediately to confronting the negligent sod. The middle of the night being the best time for an accusatory confrontation being that the forcibly woken party is assuredly off balance and prone to slipping. It’s Madara’s favorite tactic.

Anything after that was a problem for future him. And probably the Daimyo given this _was_ one of his officials.

And if he found anything about the certain missing shinobi who disappeared here then, well, a letter sent to next of kin was surely just to rub in how he had the upper hand and not at all intended to give a sense of closure. Madara would never be so kind to an enemy. It wasn’t proper.

He hopped onto the window sill of said office, jimmied the window open, and slipped inside soundlessly. 

Then he was abruptly brought up short by the sheer _barrenness_ of the office.

Desktop empty. Inkwell dry. Empty vase where plants should be. There’s _dust_ of all things on the shelves. All in all, the office carries an air of faint neglect.

This is very, very wrong.

Madara searches the place anyway, just to be thorough, but it turns up as fruitless as he suspects. He bites his lip, thinking, concerned. No one’s used this office in _days._ Oh, sure, it looks like someone keeps it clean, except it’s not the _clean_ of a room in use, more like a room kept in storage for occasional use. Which— a governor’s own _office_ should not be in storage when the man himself is present in the town and, as far as Madara is aware, in perfectly good health.

This wasn’t just dereliction of duty; this was full out negligence.

What the hell was going on here?

Madara hopped back up on the window sill, scanning the town with an intent gaze and furrowed brows. What to do, what to do…

Confront the governor seemed a likely next step, so that’s what he’s going with.

Now, where was the old bastard?

* * *

Where turned out to be ‘going to the temple’ at this time of night. Of all things. From his hidden perch behind a shachihoko statue, Madara scowled, somehow, the governor being a diligently spiritual man didn’t quite mesh with the sheer neglect of his office. And, speaking from experience, Madara can think of very few good reasons someone might be running to a temple at this time of night.

This bears investigating.

Madara slipped down the roof and leapt to the next one, cat soft, making his way around the temple to find a discreet entrance. He eyes the bell towers consideringly before dismissing them as too obvious, better a carelessly propped window he thinks.

He finds one that leads to an office. Given the still wet inkstone he thinks it might have been recently vacated. For the visiting governor perhaps?

Only one way to find out.

With a quick sweep of chakra to ensure the coast was clear, Madara slunk through the temple, pausing to check around every corner. The temple is surprisingly lively for this time of night. He knows this because, though the halls may be empty, it seems every priest in the building has congregated in front of the great statue of Akkorokamui, looking particularly ominous in the lowlight.

Madara almost swallows his tongue at the sight of the sigil burned large on the floor; a triangle within a circle.

The symbol of Jashin.

Well then. He no longer wonders why his mission predecessor disappeared.

Fuck.

The priests — though he most certainly doesn’t believe their allegiances lies with Akkorokamui — gather around the circle, faces turned towards the door with sickening hunger gleaming. The governor stands out among them by the serenely dreamy blankness that paints his features by comparison, the look of one who wasn’t mentally present. Madara knows it well. He can only hope, for the poor bastard’s sake, that whatever was done to him wasn’t permanently damaging.

His attention is caught by the doors opening; a slight woman in a sleeping kimono with an equally dreamy blank expression standing there. She couldn’t have been more than mid-thirties, dark hair, sun-lined, the broad shoulders of someone who worked hard for a living.

“Ah, our guest of honor!” A man in slightly more ornate robes than his compatriots, presumably the head priest then, spread his arms in welcome. “Come, come, my dear, we’ve been waiting for you.”

“Chounosuke-kannushi?” She asked, voice distant and frail. 

Yeah, Madara had a bad feeling about this.

“My dear, you have been chosen for a great honor,” the priest told her, staring at her with a smile that looked increasingly… slimy. _Hungry._ “Tonight, you worship the god of suffering in the way He likes best.”

“Oh.” She scrunched her face with bleary slowness, the dots not quite connecting. “Okay? I can’t stay too late, my kids will wonder where I’m at.”

Oh fuck, she had _kids._

Madara resigned himself to foolishness.

Knowing better than to let her touch the ritual array, he announced his presence with a grand fireball from behind, sweeping in right on its tail, wakizashi drawn and hungry for stragglers. The governor is a lost cause, standing stock still and dreamy, he’s engulfed in flame straight away, doesn’t even scream as his body cooks and collapses on the array. A priest gurgling through a stabbed throat joins him.

The ritual array glowed dull red.

“No!” Probably not Chounosuke cried. “How dare you, you wretch, you ruined it! Those are paltry offerings to mighty Jashin!”

Oh gross, Madara was going to need a purification from a sane priest after this mission.

Tuning out the usual threats; you’ll be next, we’ll make a chalice to His Suffering Most Exalted out of your body, you’ll plead for His mercy before the dawn, blah, blah, blah, Madara kicked aside a priest, bowling him into another, and jabbed the wakizashi between another’s ribs to give himself enough of an opening to grab their addled victim and shoulder the doors open, hightailing it like his— well, like _her_ life depended on it. Based on all of them trying to avoid being torched he surmises that possibly none of them had delved into the black rites of immortality, Madara knew just enough of the cult of the God of False Mercy to know Jashinist immortals didn’t shy from injury or their own pain, seemingly gaining strength from it instead.

The civilian woman tossed over his shoulder made a confused noise, squirming and reaching out to the temple doors. “No,” she groaned, “Put me down, I have to go back. I have to— I have to…”

Madara swore and sped up, swearing again at the unfamiliarity of the streets. However those psychos lured in victims, it mindfucked them but good, and Madara was going to need to apply a bit of maintenance as soon as he found a good enough hidey-hole, which, goddamn, that was very much out of his wheelhouse skillswise. As if the night couldn’t get any more aggravating.

An axe flew past his nose and thunked into a nearby house.

Madara grimaced, spoke too soon.

A quick glance around revealed one of the priests trying to flank him, ugly expression made uglier by soot and blisters, another one on the opposite side, apparently slower than his compatriot, and three more on his tail. Well, shit. He was hoping they weren’t _that_ well trained in martial chakric arts.

Madara braked abruptly to let them overshoot and spun on his heel, forming a seal with one hand and exhaling fire in the path of his pursuers, forcing them down and back. His rescuee thrashed blearily in his arms at all the jostling, almost sending him careening off balance when he turned to run again. 

“Lady, please!” Madara snapped, taking off down a side alley to dodge the two coming back around. Shit, he needed a place to dump her quick. “I’m trying to save your life here!”

“They’re calling me,” she whined.

“Yeah, to your death,” Madara shot back. “Think about your kids!”

He only gets a confused noise in reply. Figures. This is what he got for reasoning with someone presently unable to parse any reason. As an Uchiha, you’d think he’d know better.

“Just stay quiet,” he muttered, zigzagging through alleys to lose their pursuers, flinging himself over dead ends as tightly as he dared. 

Safe to say he was already lost. And headed straight for the coast judging by the thick taste of salt and rotting kelp in his mouth.

Fine. There’s probably more hiding places over there anyway.

An off sounding breeze has Madara ducking a wind blade, the jutsu scythed into a parked cart and wood splinters sprayed everywhere, what was left collapsing with a loud crash all across the empty street. Madara threw himself into a less than gentle roll so he doesn’t lose momentum, aggravatedly taking the brunt so he doesn’t hurt the woman, flinging out a handful of kunai in the same motion. He’s gratified by a cry of pain, the priest stumbling to one knee with a kunai lodged in his thigh.

Not a single soul stirred in their houses at the noise.

Well then. That wasn’t creepy or anything.

Madara’s starting to think this is a little more widespread than he initially assumed.

It’s just the one priest who caught up, luckily enough, and he’s not cautious enough to avoid Madara’s gaze gone sharingan scarlet. A quick genjutsu has the man wrenching the kunai out of his leg and turning it on himself; Madara doesn’t stick around for it, he’s got other places to be.

He takes a few more turns before he thinks he’s sufficiently lost them. Hopefully, for long enough to relieve himself of a certain burden.

He sets the woman on her feet, one hand firmly clamped on her shoulder. He grabbed her chin and turned her to face him, forcing her to meet his eyes. “ _Kai,_ ” he intoned, sharingan flaring as it digs into the illusion with insistent, wispy claws—

And slides off ineffectually, dull dark eyes reflecting red light blankly.

“...oh, you have gotta be shitting me!” Madara hissed. What kind of genjutsu resisted the sharingan?

“I have to go to the temple,” she replied, tugging mindlessly on Madara arm.

“You most certainly do not,” Madara told her incredulously.

“I have to,” she insisted, head already turning in, presumably, the direction of the temple, whole body leaning against his grip.

Madara did not have time for this.

There are faint voices coming closer, so Madara curses, slings the woman back over his shoulder, and flees. 

After a few more random turns it starts becoming obvious his heedless plunge is losing out to pursuers who actually know the lay of the land. The taste of sea water is so thick in his tongue he could choke on it with every pant, but that was distaste talking so Madara shoved it aside as best he could.

“Screw it,” Madara snarls lowly, and leaps, skidding on the side of a building before his chakra catches and he lunges for the roofs. He’s sick of this cat and mouse game, might as well take it the open water where there was plenty of space and a lack of potential hostages, to finish this parody of a hunt.

He catches the distant sound of shouting, smiling grimly. These oversized pond-fish managed to look up.

The roofs give way to boardwalk; old, rugged, salt-soaked wood pounded smooth by countless feet, rising level over the downslope of the shore and connecting to the docks. The wooden planks creak in protest as Madara lands hard, splintering underfoot when he pushes off into a sprint. 

He reaches the end of the longest dock in the blink of an eye, letting his momentum skid him off the end and throwing his free hand out to catch the edge of it with a vague plan of lashing the woman to the underside where she’d stay out of sight while Madara got down to business. 

But no sooner did Madara touch down on water when a pale hand breaches the surface and drags him under into the shadow of the dock.

Just for the record, Madara hates the taste of seawater just as much as the smell.


	2. Isui Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the tangles of intrigue deepens, and Madara questions seafood.

“Oh, my head,” the woman groaned come dawn, dripping on the dock, “what happened?”

Madara gets as far as opening his mouth to say _you tell me, lady_ when their mysterious rescuer tsks chidingly and shakes a finger in her direction.

“It’s good to see you’re recovering, Hiyama-san,” he said, “but I have to say this is terribly uncharacteristic of you, drinking so late and staying out all night. I’m surprised you’d ever be so foolish! Think about what could have happened to you if this nice man and myself weren’t here to keep you out of worse trouble. We’re an honest town but we aren’t that honest you can be so carefree! Think of your children!”

Hiyama drew up in clear horror, eyes wide,hands clutched to her chest. “I really did that? But— but I’d never...”

Madara wants to say _no_ and _what the hell are you talking about, that’s not what happened at all_ but the man interrupts before he can get a word in edgewise.

“You most certainly did,” he said sternly. “I understand you’ve reason to celebrate, the gods know your sister’s tried so hard to have a child, but there’s celebrating and then there’s getting carried away. If you have to be hauled out of the morning tide before you drown by passersby it definitely counts as having gotten carried away.”

“Oh, oh, I— I’m sorry,” Hiyama stuttered, one hand going up to cover her mouth. “I swear I’m not usually— I’ve _never_ — please believe me, Isui-san, this is— this is very strange!”

“I _do_ believe you,” Isui said earnestly. “Please believe _me,_ I’m as shocked as you! Are you alright? Are you going to _be_ alright? Is there…” and here he shot Madara the suspicious look locals reserved for outsiders and his voice dropped to a whisper, “is there trouble at home?”

“No!” Hiyama yelped loudly, waving her hands frantically. “No, no, nothing of the sort! Last night was a fluke, I swear! Couldn’t tell you what I was thinking!”

“Okay…” Isui trailed off uncertainly. “If you say so. Do you need any help getting home?”

Hiyama turned him down hurriedly, gathering up her sodden skirts and insisting it was fine. _She_ was fine. “I know you only have so long to take advantage of the morning tide, Isui-san. Besides, if I hurry I might not worry many more people!”

Madara watched her go, having mixed feelings about the whole thing. But in the lull he made sure to get a good look at this Isui.

He’s taller than Madara, though not by much, but built thinner, face wide and angled. His thick reddish brown hair falls over his eyes in unruly scraggles, the ends parted into four tails that fall over his shoulders and back. It’s difficult to tell what color his eyes actually are between the hair and the bright, bold blue slashed across his eyelids nearly to his temples. They look like chakra marks. Shinobi heritage maybe? The Uchiha tend to have tight draw strings about it but Madara knows other clans without kekkei genkai have little compunction besides convention about going off with any pretty face in a port that might welcome them. Anyway, best Madara can tell is a cinnamon kinda color, quite nice looking actually.

The rest of him reads fisherman; sleeveless, short kimono top, tight knee-length trousers, linen wrappings spanning wrist to elbow, and just overall a lot of sun touched bare skin that told a tale of wind and spray and sharp teeth and sharper blades. 

He’s also handsome but Madara’s trying to ignore that.

“What the hell was all that?” Madara blurted out. “And who are you?”

Isui blinked. “Shinobi?”

“I— yes, if that wasn’t obvious,” Madara bit out. “My questions?”

“Names Miyazaki Isui,” he offered easily, settling himself into a comfortable sitting position. “But that’s a common surname around these parts so everyone just calls me Isui-san. As for all that, well.” He shrugs. “If I told her the truth it’d slide off like water on oilskin. If I said she was sleepwalking, she’d tell others we saved her life. If said she did something shameful and reputation ruining…” He shrugged again. “Much more likely to stick to home and keep things to herself.”

Madara resisted the urge to gape. Then he resisted the urge to scowl. Wait, no, he doesn’t and scowled freely.

He understood the reasoning well enough. If whatever was holding the town in thrall also prevented them from acknowledging evidence that something was wrong then obviously telling the truth wasn’t going to cut it. And making themselves out to be noble saviors in _any_ fashion would draw the type of attention that would have crazed Jashinists coming down on everyone’s heads by high noon. Not exactly ideal. Just—

“You don’t seem to be as, ah, ‘oblivious’ as she is,” Madara observed. He tries not to sound suspicious but. 

He is suspicious.

This Miyazaki Isui was a little _too_ convenient, wasn’t he? Appearing in Madara’s hour of need, knowing what to say, to explain, to keep things hushed. He’s got a reasonable explanation for everything, doesn’t he?

Except he’s now Madara’s key witness in this investigation, gods _damn it!_

“It’s the water.” Isui said simply, pointing to the tide.

The briny, kelpy, swishing tide and that just reminded Madara all over again that he stunk of sea water to high heavens. Even now his hair was resentfully drying into salt-stiffened curls and his skin fairly _itched._

“What?” Madara managed, wrenching his mind back on task. “What about it?”

“Ah,” Isui hesitated. Likely, he’d never had to _explain_ this before. Or so Madara assumes. What’s it like being by yourself in the middle of a nightmare? “There’s, er, something about the midnight bell as far as I can determine. The one at the temple. It _calls._ Everyone answers. But sound doesn’t penetrate water very well so as long as I stay under it can’t snag me. I’m safe. I don’t lose as much.”

Oh, Madara absolutely hates that ‘as much’ caveat. Not unexpected though. Still…that bit about the temple bell… 

The intricacies of genjutsu are not Madara’s specialty. He does not dedicate his time and skill to warping the world of a single mind; Madara warps the very world itself for all minds to see. Still, Madara is not _ignorant_ of those intricacies. He knows illusions that can fake sights, fake sounds, fake a sense of _nothing being wrong._ However…

Madara has never heard of a genjutsu _cast_ by sound. Granted, he literally couldn’t conceive of a genjutsu that could hold a town the size of this one for so long without faltering until he walked face first into it, so what the hell does he know? But even so, where the ever living hells were those priests getting the chakra from? The bell he can sort of understand, the sound reaches every corner of the town presumably. He could even, grudgingly, and with no small sense of disgust, appreciate the poetic irony of corrupting a tool meant to ward off evil and misfortune into a tool that _lured_ people to _their_ misfortune.

But what was powering this— _enchantment,_ for lack of a better word? Something of this size, it couldn’t be a person powering it. Even Hashirama would die of chakra exhaustion in a week. So, something not human. 

Madara grimaced. This was the cult of Jashin they were dealing with. For all he knew they were drawing directly on their fucked up god’s power to do this.

Okay, overarching goal; figure out what was powering the... _enchantment,_ sever the power source.

Madara turned an assessing stare on Isui, who simply arched a brow back. “Tell me everything you know, starting with when you noticed,” Madara demanded.

Isui pursed his mouth. “Done. But…”

“What?”

“Can we eat while we do that?” Isui made a face. “I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday, and I know for a fact you haven’t either.”

Madara would actually rather have a bath first.

“We can do that too.” Isui nodded.

Well shit, he said that out loud didn’t he?

* * *

The much desired bath turned out to be a quick, cold rinse via a water pump in an alley-cum-private corner that, from the smell and the stains, sees more people rinsing gutted fish than people rinsing off brine. Although Isui assures him plenty people use it for that too — sailors and dockworkers and fishermen mostly, no need to look so scandalized. 

Madara emerges with wet hair and slightly damp clothing, still smoking from the quick katon he’d applied to flashdry it. Has Madara mentioned yet that he hates it here? Because he hates it here so much. He never had to deal with this kind of indignity living by a river!

Isui is looking at him with that particular kind of amusement locals reserve for idiot out of towners. Madara wants to yell at him so badly but _unfortunately,_ he kind of needs to take Isui’s testimony first before he can give the smug jerk a proper piece of his mind. But _later—_ oh later. 

“Breakfast now?” Isui asked. And yes. Madara was properly starving now after the night— morning— you know what. Madara woke up in the middle of the night and he’s just been having a time of it since.

Probably shouldn’t have pushed his problems off on future him, come to think of it.

 _“Yes,"_ Madara said. “Don’t even have to ask me twice. Let’s go.”

Isui squinted over Madara’s head. “But this is the second time I’ve asked you.”

“Okay, you can just shut up.”

As with the rest of Madara’s time in this literally accursed town, breakfast also dashes Madara’s innocent hopes and dreams.

Rather than a house or a food stand of some sort, somewhere Madara can rest his goddamned feet for a minute, Isui leads them into the thick of the morning market. The _fish_ market. Madara may or may not be making a childishly disgusted face but at this point he’s past caring. Madara has nothing against eating fish, okay, but what he’s seeing is not recognizable fish shapes! There’s— shells! And claws! And goopy things in shells! And spines and too many legs and _oh god, the blue lips on that clam-thing are eyes—_

“Here.” Something fried and seaweedy was shoved under Madara’s nose.

He reared back enough to see that it was, in fact, fried seaweed on a stick. Fried seaweed with...lumpy things.

“What is that,” Madara asked flatly.

“Fried roe on seaweed,” Isui replies, shoving his own stick between his teeth with a loud, enticingly crispy crunch. “It’s good, I promise. Just the right pick me up after a bad night.”

Madara took it doubtfully. He eyed the perfectly golden exterior, smelled the familiar and almost comforting aromas of fried dough, seaweed, and fish roe, even felt, however reluctantly, his mouth start to water and his stomach finally take interest. He took a bite. It was...chewy.

“Please tell me this is not all we’re eating,” Madara said, after he swallowed. This barely counted as a snack for him, much less a meal.

Isui smiled. Madara didn’t trust it for one minute. 

“Of course not,” he said, like a schemer. And proceeded to drag Madara from stall to stall.

The first one sold crustaceans. Isui greeted the fisherman by name and haggled two whole crabs from him, then it was off to a different stall where a wizened woman with an intimidating cleaver dropped them live in a boiling pot before piling all the meat in the torso with the brains and innards besides. Plus condiments. Isui moaned shamelessly at first bite. Madara may be traumatized.

Did people really eat crabs like this? Was this normal?

“So,” Isui said, shoving a spoonful of crab goop into his mouth, “I can’t put a precise date on when, exactly, things went weird, but I definitely noticed a few months in. It was...late spring, early summer, I think? I remember thinking it was a little weird that we weren’t accepting pilgrims anymore. We stay on the important maps because of that, you know?”

Yes, Madara did know. He motioned for him to continue. Isui motioned him to eat.

Crab goop mix didn’t taste...that bad, actually. Tolerable enough to finish.

“But even as I thought that it was like a haze would just,” his brow puckered in frustration, “would just _smother_ any notion that anything was out of the ordinary. _Of course_ we weren't accepting pilgrims, why would we be? _Of course_ the temple was closed, and the priests in seclusion, why wouldn’t they be? _Of course—”_

“Sounds like a genjutsu,” Madara interjected before the spiel got much longer. Not that he didn’t _know_ that, of course. That, he’d figured out for himself hours ago.

Isui rolled his eyes. He paused a moment so they could dispose of their crab shells before continuing, “ _Anyway,_ I didn’t _notice_ notice anything was _wrong_ until I was awake for the midnight bell. Oh, hang on.” 

‘Hang on’ turned out to be yet another stall of nightmares. Once again, Isui greeted the proprietor familiarly and immediately launched into haggling for some...pretty flat shell things with what looked like the least appetizing, dirty suction cup ever inside. Madara watched on in horror as a handful were grabbed from their tank and butchered alive. At least, he thinks they were alive, there was definitely some tissue contraction going on. 

Isui called them abalone and they ended up in a bowl of noodles and broth. Turns out this was a sit down place. 

Which was fine. Madara’s knees were buckling anyway. Not that anyone needed to know.

Why was so much seafood butchered or cooked alive? _Nightmarish._ Everywhere Madara looked cooks were grabbing wriggling creatures and twisting off heads and ripping out bowels and cutting off tiny squirming limbs without so much as batting an eye. _Is this normal?_

“So as I was saying,” Isui turned back to him again, “I think I had a nightmare that night. I don’t really recall. I startled out of a dead sleep, couldn’t tell up from down. I remember stumbling out of my house towards the shore, thinking a quick dip would clear my head, you know? That’s when the bells started.” He thoughtfully passed Madara the soy sauce, and Madara took it mechanically. “I was underwater for the first few gongs, that’s why I think it jarred me so badly. It was like...like a net that only half landed you know? I felt the catch but I could still squirm away.”

Madara nodded slowly, and rested his chin on a fist, deep in thought. He slept through the midnight bell last night, but nothing tried to take hold of his mind then, and Madara didn’t flatter himself as to think he could toss off such a powerful, encompassing genjutsu in his sleep. Multiple parts then? One to ensnare, one to lull and lure? 

Ah, Madara grumbled to himself, that just made things more complicated. He resisted the urge to heave a sigh.

“And you’ve been avoiding hearing the bell since?” he asked, sticking some noodles in his mouth and wrinkling his nose when the taste of abalone turned out to be...not intolerable. Not really a flavor he could identify either.

He’s still never getting over the butchered alive thing though. What the fuck was wrong with coastal people?

“Mm,” Isui hummed in agreement around a mouthful of his own. “I don’t sleep well to begin with so it wasn’t hard.”

Madara is going to stick that with the rest of the ‘this guy is SO suspicious’ pile. Not that it was unusual that someone might be an uneasy sleeper, certainly Madara knew more than his fair share of the type. Nor that being a habitual uneasy sleeper might save them from a lure that only gets cast at an hour where most people prefer to not be awake. And if you knew something might try to attack you in your sleep it was all the easier to _become_ an uneasy sleeper—

And Madara just talked himself out of Isui being suspicious. He decided to double down on the suspicion anyway.

Just in case.

You never know.

Unrelatedly, Madara could really use a nap. Seriously.

Oh, actually. Madara grimaced down at his bowl of watery broth. He can’t go back to the Aotama Inn. if those priests were as smart as they were crazy, and Madara can’t bank on them _not_ being, then he needed to find a new place to sleep tonight. Which, come on, that was his good travel futon! They better not do anything to it or Madara was going to shove whatever remained up someone’s ass. With prejudice!

Speaking of traveling…

“Have you never tried leaving town? Let anyone know what was going on?” Madara asked, shoving the bowl away.

Isui just shook his head. “You think it’s easy to leave town? My eyes might be open but I’m still on the tether. Plus,” he added, voice dipping in aggravation, “I can’t send letters if the mail couriers no longer leave. And the only carrier pigeons left alive belong to the governor and there’s no way I can get to _them._ ”

Huh. Leash component?

Ugh, this was just getting more and more complicated. Madara rubbed at the growing headache pounding in his temples. It abated somewhat with food in his stomach but now that he was no longer hungry it was returning with a vengeance. 

“Hey,” Isui leaned forward, a concerned look on his face, “you okay?”

“If by okay you mean underslept and about to be severely overworked, then yes. I am _perfectly fine,_ ” Madara moaned, and let his head drop to the counter with a _thunk._ “By any chance, do you happen to know a place someone can hole up with few questions asked?”

“Currently?” Isui snorted. “That’s everywhere. Good luck finding anyone with the wherewithal to keep their mouths shut though. _Nothing is wrong_ means no one thinks anything of sharing _anything_ when asked.”

Madara thumped his head on the counter again, just for good measure. “Great.”

Isui clapped him on the shoulder hard, as he made to stand up. Madara startled, swearing when he nearly fell off his stool. 

“What was that for?” Madara demanded. Also, ow. Just a bit. 

“C’mon,” Isui said with a roll of his eyes that Madara does not appreciate. “You can stay with me for the time being. I live alone, and no one would ever suspect you would shack up with some fisherman.”

Well then. Madara can muster no good argument against that and he was far too worn out to try.

Isui’s home was, well, there was no kind way to put this, a shack on stilts. Granted, it was a well kept shack but still; a shack. Within walking distance of the docks, and thus right next to the water. The wood looked like it belonged to a ship once, cleverly recut and refitted into a house shape and treated to a handsome stain but Madara could see places where tar had been scrapped away on some of the planks. The roof was thatched with palm fiber and fronds, and the stairs leading up to the door was made of bamboo which Madara knew grew very well further inland. 

The inside was clean, and practically ascetic. There was a woven mat rolled up against one wall along with a couple cushions, which Madara presumed was Isui’s bed. Another wall had shelves and hooks for a fishing rod, twine, and various kinds of nets, the tools of his trade, among other domestic odds and ends. The wall with the doorway held a basic chest of drawers. And the last wall had a cloth sheet tacked over it and nothing else. Strange. And in the middle of the room was a stone basin of sorts, a makeshift irori, set into the floor and lined with more stones.

All in all, while there was still the ever present, ever objectionable smell of brine and kelp, Madara had slept in worse places.

He was still going to see if he could steal his travel futon back at the first opportunity though. 

And then Madara realized, with a fresh surge of horror, as Isui rolled the mat out and offered Madara a cushion, Isui had been up nearly as long as he had, and while he was holding up admirably, he still had to be exhausted. He’d want to sleep too.

_And there was only one mat._


End file.
